


Prodigy | phan

by moopya



Category: Amazingphil - Fandom, Kickthestickz, Phan, Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), danandphil - Fandom, danhowell - Fandom, danielhowell - Fandom, dnp - Fandom, phillester - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Gay, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-29 01:56:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17194334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moopya/pseuds/moopya
Summary: ❝ He's unimaginably talented. Almost frighteningly so. Remember that. ❞Daniel Howell is a child prodigy, an acclaimed pianist. Famous. Phil Lester is just a lowly violinist, in the back of the New York Philharmonic orchestra. Forgotten.Dan isn't sure what this is all for, though, or what it means for his future. And Phil, for all his efforts to find his way to Dan's heart, isn't all that he seems to be.//The future is littered with loss, hope, and heartbreak.//





	1. foreword

**Foreword**

They say life is too short. And that's true. 

But for some, more so than others. And for still others, entirely untrue.

My life. Dreary and aimless, all tripping fingers and a wearisome familiarity with unfamiliar hotel rooms, itchy naps in the car at strange hours of the night. Too young to know true exhaustion, yet given enough of a glimpse into adulthood monotony to know that life, sometimes, is too long.

And what to say of my guilt? To know that there are worthier lives than my own, bright and expanding and hopeful, that all too soon explode into rueful stardust?

They say life is too short.

_But only if we make it._

 

**A/N:**

Dedicated to my piano teacher of nearly nine years, who once told me while grieving for her departed daughter:

_"Music is what keeps me alive."_


	2. prologue

I started playing the violin in Year 6 in my school orchestra at my piano teacher's eager insistence; according to her, a musician such as myself should expand his horizons. I had never paid much attention to other instruments prior to that. I saw no need to, and I had no interest, but I found myself falling in love with its rustic sound the first time I truly laid my ears to it.

I fell in love with the violin in a much different way than I did with the piano- the piano has always been there, a constant in my life that I can no longer ever let go of. But the violin... my romance with the violin was like falling off a cliff and flying into the clouds at the same time.

Instantaneous.

Without reason, and with absolute certainty.

* * *

some housekeeping stuff !!

for plot continuity purposes: 

~ dan's birthday is december 31st, not june 11th  
~ adrian is dan's older brother, not younger  
~ places i mention in this story actually exist  
(i did a lot of unnecessary research lmao)

**this is also on wattpad, if anyone wants to read there instead (i prioritize wattpad)**

please point out any errors !!


	3. tuxedos and gpa's

_[ "Daniel Howell, child prodigy and pianist, has been an object of worry as some begin to wonder if he is being pressured into a performer's life too young at ten years old..." ]_

_["Howell, an extraordinary pianist of eleven, is on his way to making himself a star. Critics argue that he is not ready to be pushed into the spotlight just yet..." ]_

_[ Daniel Howell, aged seventeen, is seen here practicing for possibly one of the biggest performances of his life at the internationally famed Carnegie Hall.  
Were those years worth it?" ]_

 

Were the years worth it?

Not even I can answer that. And that's why I should never have become a musician. 

* * *

"What color tie? I suppose black would be the safest option... Or perhaps a bow tie? I'm not sure how you would look with a bow tie..."

"A bow tie might be nice," I say, not really caring. The audience isn't going to be paying attention to what sort of object is choking me. Or maybe my mother is thinking about getting clip-on bow ties, but most probably not; formal events call for formal attire, right down to the tips of your hair and nails. I can only hope my father knows how to tie those things, because I've had enough trouble with ties over these years- you'd think my nimble piano fingers would get the hang of it after a couple of times, but they haven't.

"A suit? Tuxedo? Tuxedo. Definitely not white, your skin is far too pale for that, not to mention the stage lighting," my mother mutters as she scrolls through clothing websites. I sit awkwardly behind her, peering over her shoulder. Shopping for expensive clothes is almost as stressful as actually wearing them.

My eyes glaze over the expensive suits, and I'm startled when my mother says abruptly: "Also, Dan, about your grades..."

"What about them?" I ask cautiously.

"They're dropping a bit, don't you think?" She swivels her chair around and fixes me in a stare, and I look down, uneasily shifting.

I may be a musical prodigy (though I hate the word), but I'm no genius when it comes to maths and science. Unless it's fractions, because heaven knows how much time I invested to learn the mathematics of music notes- note values, time signatures, rhythms- until I could conjure them in my mind while sleeping. But I am not an expert at logarithms, nor do I pretend to understand physics.

I have written stories and I do excel at essays, however. It's probably because of my geeky, outsider-type look that I happen to be my English teacher's favorite, but I don't mind. I like the subject, and liking the subject is so much easier when you and the teacher have a mutual pupil-teacher fondness for each other. I might have been a writer, she mourns for me, but at least I have another purpose- "to make beautiful music."

Physical Education. PE. Gym. Whatever you would like to call it, it will always hold the same meaning for me: death, depression, and downright dread.

Just look at me, a model English student with that fabulous use of alliteration.

PE is a place where my standing as a musician will do me no good. Music holds no place in this class, unless you are in Girl's PE where _they_ get to learn zumba and step aerobics (which I believe is an arrangement of complete gender unfairness- the boys' class does not get to do any kind of dancing) so my chubby, unfit body gets beaten down by exercise and overly competitive boys every other day. I'm capable of playing the piano without running out of breath or going into cardiac arrest, but I simply cannot run the mile in under twelve minutes, let alone in the five minutes that other guys can achieve.

So, no wonder my GPA has dropped- my current grade in PE is probably a 50 by now. I haven't made up for any of the classes I had missed while traveling for performances, which might have been a mistake.

But music class, which has since been replaced with orchestra after I decided to take up the violin in fifth grade, has always been a 100 for me. It wakes me up in the morning. It's my caffeine, my source of adrenaline and a minute feeling of excitement for school. Even there, I am considered talented, taking over first chair and selected to be the concertmaster, and I suppose the ease at which it came to me is owed to my years of musical education with the piano.

My mother, however, could care less about orchestra. It is simply a grade booster and an advantage to my less-than-impressive grades in my other subjects. She cares more about my other courses, courses that could potentially get me into law school. Because she still does not believe that I am going to make a career out of music.

I can't help but be reminded of Felix Mendelssohn, whose parents also tried to discourage him from pursuing music and instead tried to persuade him into studying law instead. History does repeat itself, doesn't it?

Sometimes I wonder if this is all just to spite her; to prove to her that I _can_ and _will_ be successful, and that not everyone who pursues this career ends up becoming a "starving musician."

But that's not what I should be playing for.

So what do I play for?

"Dan, you are _smart,_ you are _capable,_ why don't you do a bit better?"

I'm a disappointment. I know she feel that way too, deep down, and I don't blame her. I would be upset, too, if my child clearly was intelligent and refused to work up to their full potential. She wants me to have a good education. A stable life.

But stable does not always mean happy. And even though I don't understand what happy means yet, shouldn't my parents know by now? Shouldn't they have that knowledge stored away to gift to their son? I am one year short of becoming an adult, and I still don't know what I am supposed to do in life to make it mean something, not only to other people but also to _me._

"I'll study harder," I promise, but these are empty words and my mother knows it; she rolls her eyes.

So here I sit, tuxedos forgotten because my academics will always mean more than my music.

* * *

I am in my room trying to uphold my promise when I get a call from my piano teacher.

I take a deep breath in an attempt to calm my racing heart- I hate phone calls. "Hi, Mrs. Sternfeld," I attempt to say brightly.

"Daniel, hello! I was just wondering if your parents have done all the necessary bookings and things for the trip to New York City, because I am coming with you, I just need to know the details because we need to be there two weeks in advance so you can, of course, rehearse with the orchestra-"

I fight a smile that threatens to cross my face. I'm glad she's coming with us, because I know I'm not going to be spending the three extra days in New York silently freaking out next to my parents. She's an old lady, and sometimes I worry when she makes long trips for my performances, but her honest dedication to me makes me feel a bit guilty- sometimes it seems like she can see past my facade and realizes that I'm not the passionate musician she believes she had found within me.

Passionate or not, I'm still glad I have her full support, because there's no other option for me right now.

"Yeah, sure, um, hold on, please, I'll go get my mother," I fumble for the speaker button and run to find her.

As I sit patiently, listening to them talking about expenses and hotels and such, I begin to map out my trip. Perhaps Mrs. Sternfeld could persuade my parents that visiting Steinway Factory would be a worthwhile thing to do, or maybe do a bit of sightseeing. Nothing too strenuous, in view of her age, but it would be nice to take time to enjoy one of the most famous cities in the world.

I am nearly dozing off when my mother hangs up and hands me the phone. "We can't let those extra three days go to waste, so you'd better start planning our trip, Dan," she tells me wryly. I gape at her.

"Seriously?" I ask.

"It's New York City, Dan, and we can't let you just stress until your performance, you've got to relax a bit." I want to laugh, because she's never told me to "relax" before, but I grin at her before she can take her words back. Opening my laptop in my room, I begin to do some research. It takes about three hours for me to figure out where the potential places I want to go are in Manhattan, how the subway schedules work and when we might take a taxi. It takes my mind off the real reason why we're going, and I welcome the distraction.

My rear end has gone numb, and I've forgone a trip to the bathroom, which I quickly remedy before checking to see what if dinner is ready.

Dinner is not my favorite part of the day. There's only the clinking of utensils against ceramic, and minimal talking. I wonder if it's my music that has sucked out the sound from my family, when it's supposed to do the opposite. They don't ask how my lessons have gone, but they ask how my school day has been. And there's really nothing to talk about when it comes to school, so I just mutter "Fine," and leave it at that behind a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

My father used to play the flute. His blocky figure doesn't give it away, but from what he told me when I was little, he held promise- that is, until his father told him to quit. I got upset upon hearing this story and he never told it again, but I wonder if he urges me to play the piano in fear of being unsupportive like his own father was. But sometimes, as I do with Mrs. Sternfeld, I wonder if he can see through me at a passion that I lack.

I try to be understanding, I really do, but parents really do forget what it's like to be a teenager. That's all I am: a teenager who's almost an adult and doesn't know how to make an omelet. I could learn from the Internet, but that's no substitute for the times my own mother could have taught me, the times she could have sat down with me, the times we could have laughed together but didn't because the silence between us built by music was too tall and too long of a wall. I used to speak too much at dinner, tried so hard to make them laugh or smile or ask me questions but eventually I gave up, concluding that I'm just not interesting or charismatic enough for my parents to fill this void across the dining table.

I excuse myself from dinner.

I don't spare a glance to the baby grand piano in my living room. Its black finish blends in with nightfall, and that's how I prefer it to be, because I don't want to be reminded of the fact that other people run to their piano every time they lay their eyes on it. I suppose it's a credit to my skill that three hours of practice a day is enough for me, but deep down I know that this the difference between me and other musicians: they love what they do unconditionally, as they do with the air they breath, and they do not ever willingly part with this precious gift of life. Music breathes life into musicians... But I silently suffocate instead.

"Can I go for a walk?" I call. I need fresh air. I need to listen to music, let the music give me oxygen... Because God knows my own music can't ever do that, I sorrowfully reflect.

My mother comes out of the kitchen, eyebrows furrowed. "Any reason why?" she asks. I know why: I never exercise, and her confusion is clear. "Just to get some fresh air," I say hesitantly, because I don't really go out of the house alone and I don't really know how to ask.

"Alright... Well, be back in a couple of hours, then, okay? It's a school night. And take your phone with you." It doesn't make any difference for me whether it's a school night or not since I don't sleep much anyway, but I nod.

The night is warmer than I expected, but it's still September and fall hasn't really settled into the air yet. The crispness is missing from the wind and the leaves on the trees; there's still the hint of fresh green life and I smell the aftershave of rain clinging to the earth. The neighborhood is still without the corpses of dead leaves littering the pristine lawns, because they're still hanging on to the branches shivering and desperate to keep living for even just one more day before the wind snaps their lifeline.

Dead leaves. Unwanted and soon swept away like dead dreams, crumbling and decaying back to the soil.

I spot a brown leaf tumbling through the air. But dead leaves turn to compost, don't they? They bring the color that they lost into new things, sprouting new beginnings and new leaves. If only I could sprout again.

I take a deep breath through my nose. Everything smells damp, but not the sort of damp that comes with wet fabric and dirty school buses, because dirty school buses are what made me come to hate rainy days. This smell is petrichor, the rejuvenation of everything because while rain is cold and relentless, it also brings life.

If I could turn petrichor into a candle, I would keep it burning all the time.

Ding.

**PJ [7:02 PM]**  
dUdE YoU'rE gOiNg  
tO AmEriCA iN A  
MoNtH RiGhT

**:Dan [7:03 PM]**  
that must have  
taken so long to type  
also no it's 3 months

**PJ [7:03 PM]**  
oOpS oh yeah

**:Dan [7:03]**  
so why are you so  
excited about me going  
to america ??

**PJ [7:04 PM]**  
get me some souvenirs  
man

**:Dan [7:04 PM]**  
lmao sure

**PJ [7:04 PM]**  
also good luck with  
the performance oops  
i'm an awful friend

**:Dan [7:04 PM]**  
pj it's 3 months away  
tell me good luck when i  
actually get there

**PJ [7:05 PM]**  
extra encouragement  
dude ily

**:Dan [7:05 PM]**  
ily too bro

**PJ [7:05 PM]**  
no homo

**PJ [7:06 PM]**  
come over to my  
house tomorrow, we  
can chill and play  
video games

**:Dan [7:06 PM]**  
can't, i have to practice  
and i have a shit ton of  
homework :/

**PJ [7:06 PM]**  
:(

Good old PJ. We have nearly nothing except dark humor and video games in common, and yet he insists on spending time whenever we can. I feel like my parents sometimes think I'm closeted and gay for PJ, but then again they are also pretty blind to what I get up to with my friends, which aren't many to begin with.

PJ is a dynamic person, with an open, friendly face and a personality to match it. He's pretty straightforward, too (even if his sexuality isn't), and on the first day of school of Year 7, he sidled up next to me and said bluntly with a grin on his face,"My mum thinks I should be friends with you." Naturally, I was baffled, and I could only stared at him in bewilderment. He explained how his mum had seen my name in newspapers and thought it would be nice if I could befriend PJ; and though I should have been mildly offended by that, I couldn't help but laugh along with him at how ridiculous this mentality was. He stuck out his hand after that, and said "You look nice, so that's why I'm friends with you now. I'm PJ."

"I'm Dan," I replied, and just like that, with one handshake, I had my first friend. 

In the months to come, I waited for him to lose interest in me not because I thought he was a mean sort, but because I felt I wasn't interesting enough to be his friend. It's a bit sad, really, that at twelve years old I felt I wasn't good enough for anyone. But day after day, he kept sitting with me at lunch and invited me over and made jokes with me, and slowly I began to open up a little more.

Chris came a bit later in the game, in the summer after Year 8 at PJ's birthday party, because PJ, unlike me, has enough friends to invite to be able to call it a party. PJ had dragged this small boy with floppy brown hair and big hazel eyes over to me and promptly introduced him. He was like an timid little rabbit, and I tried to hunch over to scrape away some of my height that towered over him because I was half expecting him to run away at any moment. Sitting him down, we awkwardly started to talk, PJ already long gone to talk with other people, and slowly we came to build our friendship brick by brick.

Me and PJ's friendship is very different from the one I have with Chris. It wasn't forward and one hundred percent certain, but what came out of that building turned into safe house, filled with darkness and loneliness sometimes but also filled with books and smiles and late night talks about life and death. 

It was something special, something to be cherished and handled in a different way than I handled the bond between me and PJ. PJ and I have fun and make jokes in the light of sadness; Chris and I rest on each other's shoulders and can see darkness in lightheartedness. 

I shiver. It's starting to get dark, and I've already circled the neighborhood twice. I don't want to seem like a creep wandering around aimlessly in a baggy black hoodie, so I start walking faster.

I look out over the treetops and I'm startled the by dazzling sunset that I'm met with. It's the kind that comes after a downpour of rain, where the smoldering fire slowly gets extinguished and smothered by velvet until darkness falls, and you know that you won't see this kind of sunset for a very long time. I haul myself up onto my porch and realize that I haven't fully appreciated a sunset in a long time.

As I turn to open the front door, the crickets start to sound a symphony.


	4. light

"Hello?"

"Hey, Dan, um, it's Chris... Do you have a moment?" 

__I sneak a look at the time._ _

___"I know it's late, I'm sorry, it's nothing really-"_ _ _

__It's 11 at night, and I know my parents don't want me to be up this late, but I figure if I'm quiet I'll be okay. Chris has texted me late at night before but he's never called, and I'm curious as to why._ _

__"No it's fine," I reassure him, muffling my words by staying under the covers. "What's going on?"_ _

__There's a pause._ _

__"Chris?"_ _

___"My father's drunk,"_ Chris says hurriedly, like he's trying to cover up a sob by skimming over his words. _"Erm- I'm actually outside. It's cold... I forgot to grab a jacket, actually, stupid me."_ His laugh is interrupted by a hiccuping sob, and my heart wrenches in my rib cage._ _

__"Chris..." I say softly. I knew his father is alcoholic, but I'm not sure how bad the addiction is. I never understood alcohol, mainly because I've never tried it, but to be addicted to a liquid that slowly destroys your organs is an unfathomable idea to me; I'm not sure how miserable my problems would have to be for me to turn to that option._ _

__"I'm sorry, Chris, did he get mad at you, or...?" I hold my breath, hoping I wouldn't get the answer I fear._ _

___"He didn't, this time, I- shit,"_ he hisses and I can hear a sudden rustle and footsteps. For ten seconds, I hear nothing until the rumbling of a car engine- first deafening, then slowly fading away. Chris breathes a big sigh into the phone. _"It was my dad."__ _

__"He's driving drunk?" I ask. Of all the stupid things to do..._ _

___"Yeah, like he always does- it wouldn't be any wonder if he drives straight into traffic one day,"_ Chris snorts with derision. _"Not sure if I would care, honestly,"_ he adds bitterly, and I think of him, outside in the cold without a jacket with eyes bigger than the unforgiving moon._ _

__"Oh..." I say weakly, because while my heart wordlessly aches for him, my mouth is not quite connected to that part of my head. "Just don't get in the car with him, yeah?"_ _

__Chris breathes a chuckle. _"I'm not that stupid,"_ he assures me._ _

__There's a pause. "Did you go inside?" I ask. It's a cold night, and Chris is skinny enough._ _

___"No."_ _ _

__"What? Why?"_ _

___"The stars,"_ Chris says softly. So softly that I almost missed it. _"Too bad light pollution is a thing."__ _

__"Mm," I agree. Light pollution is a plague. Here is a diseased sky that we live under, sickly orange and the stars like diminished musical chords- strange, foreign. A diminished glow that we desperately want to see more of, yet kept above a hazy world filled with artificial light. Our sins are reflected onto the night sky; we watch everyday as the light gets dimmer and dimmer, the darkness getting lighter and lighter, and soon we will lose sight of our future because without darkness, there can be no light._ _

__I bite my tongue and throw off my covers to open my curtains. It's one of the clearest nights I have seen, but I know that even this isn't much._ _

__"Do you see Polaris?" I ask, looking for the bright North Star._ _

___"You know I don't know stars very well,"_ Chris sighs, but a moment later gives a small exclamation of success; _"Oh- I think I see it!"__ _

__"Is it above the Big Dipper?"_ _

___"Yeah, it is."_ _ _

__"We're looking at the same star that's four hundred thirty-four light years away," I marvel. "And we're only two miles apart."_ _

___"How do you know all these random facts?"_ Chris asks bemusedly. _"But I get your point. Us humans are so very small, aren't we?"__ _

__I stare at that star. A star branded for navigation, the savior of lost travelers, a guide, a conductor of adventurers through unknown territory- yet it is a world away._ _

__A shooting star streaks across the sky, and I softly exclaim, pointing it out to Chris. We both hold our breaths, unwilling to let it go until we've made our wishes, then exhaling as though tenderly blowing them into the heavens, letting our wishes turn into stardust._ _

__I wish for a Polaris. To take us through this world, steadfast and sure. Because Chris and I, though in different ways, have always been lost._ _

__Another pause while we listen to each other's breathing, looking into each other's eyes through a star so very far away, feeling small together. Chris' eyes would be like stars, I'm sure, if they hadn't been seared by the rage caused by a certain amber liquid, marked by loneliness and dulled by nights without dinner. But right now they're more like the moon, because his eyes shine with an artificial light that doesn't quite come from inside._ _

__"Hey," I say softly. "Go back inside and get some sleep, alright? If you want to call me, I'll have my earbuds in so I'll wake right up." We both know Chris' pride and considerate nature won't let him do that, but I give him the option anyway. I won't be able to sleep otherwise._ _

___"Thanks, Dan,"_ he says, and his voice cracks a bit, but we don't address that because then the gratitude in his words will lose its meaning, and I'm no deserving hero._ _

__"Goodnight, Chris," I quietly say instead. I can hear the creak of a door opening, the hushed crinkles of his clothes as he walks back into his house._ _

___"Night,"_ he says back. His parents never bought him a cell phone; the secretive click of his home phone being placed in its cradle is the loudest tonight in his fatigue of life._ _

__I climb back in bed. My bed seems to sag beneath me, as though I have acquired some unseen weight from talking with Chris. True to my promise, I put in my earphones, turn the volume up so I there is no chance that I would miss a call, and I bury my face into the sheets ... and maybe the weight has settled onto my eyelids somehow, because I fall asleep within minutes as I hug my pillow that I don't use to my chest._ _

____

* * *

At school, I feel a stab of isolation hit me when I see the bags under Chris' eyes. PJ doesn't fully know the situation, and Chris has never informed him. Chris doesn't have any friends besides me and PJ (how is he supposed to accept an invitation to hang out when he can never reciprocate the gesture?) because he knows PJ will never push him when Chris softly declines his prompts to spend time together, and he knows I will never ask because I know. I know that his father is alcoholic, I know his mother is having an affair, and I know he has been diagnosed with anxiety but misses his therapy sessions because his parents forget to take him. No one notices the exhaustion hiding underneath Chris' hair, nor the apprehension in his trembling hands, because they don't know and so they don't think to look.

No one looks for something they don't know exists.

But I know, and suddenly the weight of this knowledge plummets into my stomach until I'm lost in a buzz of static.

"Hi Dan!" PJ slings his arm over my shoulders and I awkwardly lean my head away to look at him so I don't accidentally bop noses with his or something equally as embarrassing. "Hi?" I say.

I glance over at Chris and he gives me a small smile, something like _"I know I was sad yesterday and that made you sad, but I won't feel bad if you're happy and I'm not."_ I look away.

"Do you want the whole school to know you're gay?" I grumble, pulling myself out of PJ's grip. Which is hilarious to PJ, because literally the whole school does know he's gay, and he has no problem with it. In fact, he practically flaunts it in their faces.

"Gay for you?" he snorts. "The whole school thinks you're an asexual beanstalk, so don't worry, cutie, only I know that you're gayer than Satan himself." PJ winks. Here is where we are marching into rocky territory- I can see Chris longingly stare up at us through his fringe, a little ways away from us.

"Ahem," I step away, closer to Chris, "I'm not gay, thanks, so get your paws off me, I'm sure there are a number of people in this school who are worthier of your gayness than me." 

Gay or not, Chris likes PJ, even though he hasn't explicitly told me, and I feel like they would be really good together if Chris would open up a bit more. And if PJ would unstick his head from the ground and actually look at the him... or maybe it's just that my observational skills are exceptional.

I say goodbye to both of them, with a punch to the arm for PJ and a subtle pat on the shoulder for Chris, and make my way to the orchestra room. I'm always one of the first ones there, because no one really cares about coming on time to orchestra- there's so much bustle to get the instruments ready that sneaking in after the bell isn't really that hard. Even the teacher is off somewhere, probably drinking coffee with his colleagues. I flip on the light switch, set my violin case down, and make my way through the rows of seats to the piano. It's routine by now: I get some practice in, my teacher listens to a bit, and as students begin to trickle in, I stop and take my seat with my violin.

I'm not even sure why I do it. I genuinely do enjoy playing the piano when I am out of reach from my parents, but I hate the connotations associated with my talent.

Future. Career. Passion.

Prodigy.

The violin is different. I don't have some miraculous ability to play it. There is no expectation for me to stand in front of hundreds and make music with it. It was my decision to play it, not like with the piano where my parents took me to a lesson at three years old and then regretted their decision nine years later. I have a good laugh every now and then by thinking about what would happen if I suddenly dropped the piano and started playing the violin... Not that it would be logically possible, and I don't have enough passion for the violin either, but my parent's reactions would be priceless.

The day passes uneventfully, so all too soon I'm back at my baby grand piano wondering yet again why I even try.

My mother pops her head into the living room, glaring. "Your performance is only three months away, and you're still making mistakes? You've been playing this piece for a year, Daniel." No matter how much she doesn't want me to be a pianist, she won't tolerate being embarrassed by a crappy performance.

"Only three months? There's still three months," I counter. "I'll fix them by then."

She harrumphs and goes back to her kitchen. I put my hands back on the keys, but as I stare at the reflection of my hands in the blackness of the piano, I suddenly feel self-conscious about playing. Both my parents are home, and while I know they don't usually pay much attention to how I practice, it doesn't feel right to be pounding these flawed melodies repeatedly into their ears.

I take a hand off the keys.

The reflection of my fingers appear slimmer and longer. An artist's fingers. Fingers I don't have.

"Daniel, why do I hear silence?" my mother yells from the kitchen. I sigh and run my hands over the same arpeggios, the same notes over and over. She doesn't usually care so much, because I never make mistakes and I always practice. But the impending Carnegie Hall performance has been putting everyone on edge these days, including me, because I can't seem to get the notes right. My father would randomly stand behind me and watch silently as I go through a piece, nodding if I'm successful or twirling his fingers to signify that it was less than perfect. Again.

More often than not, it was less than perfect for him.

Suddenly, I just want to get this over with. All this effort for just an hour onstage. I want it to be done.

I lift my arms and start again.

Music is a funny thing. It causes your brain to release dopamine- a chemical involved with addiction and motivation, ultimately resulting in pleasure. Sometimes I wonder if I'm broken, because I know I'm not "addicted" to playing the piano.

But I remember all those times I went to the piano- sobbing for one reason or another- and I would start out either tentatively too soft, not wanting to draw attention back to me, or really furiously, making mistakes on purpose or playing too loud. But as time goes on and my fingers start settling into the feel of the keys, I would suddenly be hit with the realization that my brain is calmer and my body less tense, all without my permission. I would try to go back to being angry, steeping myself in melancholy... but once the music unraveled me, it just wasn't possible.

It's like I'm the unwilling participant of drug use. And despite my resent, the drug is working.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i gave up on making chris' dialogue italicized i highkey hate ao3


	5. weightless

I enjoy plane rides, most particularly because I'm not expected to talk to anyone, and I have so much time to listen to music as I doze off to the rumble of the engines. It's like putting a warm compress over a pulled muscle- I can already feel the anxiety pumping through my veins recede as drowsiness takes its place.

The weightlessness that this huge engine possesses never ceases to blow my mind. Music, too, is such a vast thing, that makes you feel so weightless sometimes. For me, though, it's just that I don't fly up into the clouds as often as I'd like. Or as often as I am expected to.

I got the window seat this time, and I try settling my awkwardly tall frame into the seat, hunching over to look out the window. My parents mutter to each other from beside me, and I tune them out.

I blankly stare out at the sky as the sun sets over the dappled clouds and we leave daytime behind us. As we fly straight into the oncoming darkness of the night sky, I can't help but feel that this is the direction my future is going.

Into a sky of darkened uncertainties.

* * *

I have traveled internationally out of England before- but never to America, and never to New York City. Excitement replaces nerves as I step into a blast of cold air out of Newark International Airport, ready to challenge the City that Never Sleeps head-on... because heaven knows I never manage to sleep at night at all.

I try to suppress my need to go to the bathroom as we flag a taxi- I refused to use the airplane bathroom, because for one thing there is no way I would fit in such a tiny enclosed space, and for another, experience reminds me that the toilet water tends to splash into your face.

The drive to the city is a tense one between my family and I. They don't know how to encourage me, or offer support, and I can tell by the stiff way my mother holds herself and the way my father doesn't meet neither of our eyes. It will be two week until I walk out onto one of the most famous stages of the world, and I wonder what their faces will look like when I do. Will they be emotionless? Certainly not proud with a smile in their faces, because I have personally never seen this, but I have a small inkling of hope that this time, maybe they will show the tiniest bit of pride in their only son's accomplishments.

But now here's the big question:

Am _I_ proud of myself?

I watch brick buildings and apartments tumble by against a backdrop of a lit-up city in the distance. Lives and stories crumble away into the rear view mirror, and as I watch them disappear, I desperately hope mine doesn't disappear too.

I'm not sure why I worry so much about my future. I can support myself with music with so many options, whether it be teaching or performing or recording. But I think it's the uncertainty that I feel deep down about music that makes me feel uneasy, an itch that niggles at the back of my brain telling me that this isn't my destiny. Given that we don't know if we live more than once, this terrifies me; I want to refuse to fuck up at my one shot at existence, but I can't say no. Do I let down my parents, or the world?

It shouldn't be this complicated of a choice. 

We left Manchester at 3 p.m., and arrived New Jersey at 6 p.m. EST. I painstakingly do a bit of calculating, taking into account the five hour time difference, and I figure the flight took approximately eight hours. Even though it takes a lot to get me sleepy, the trip must have made me more tired than I thought it would because the jet lag is catching up with me; it's about 11:30 p.m. in England and I'm fighting a yawn, struggling to stay awake. 

I must have fallen asleep at some point, though, because when I blink back into existence we're already in the city, lights towering above us. Skyscrapers true to their names, they look like they're nearly brushing against the stars.

I'm suddenly wide awake. I feel like a child- mouth open and eyes wide, fingertips on the glass in wonder- but I don't care, because I need to feel like one, just this once before I go and leave my childhood up on that stage in Carnegie Hall.


	6. appassionata

I am well into the first movement of Beethoven's Appassionata when Phil Lester sneaks in through the stage door at half past ten.

Or tries to, at least. I nearly miss the sound of the door over the sudden swell in dynamics that the piece calls for, but there's a muffled swish, the quietest clang of instrument against chair, and a reddening conductor's face.

The conductor wastes no time in unleashing his rage the second the rehearsal ends. He clutches his baton with white knuckles and whacks it against his stand so hard I think the tip might fly off. 

_"Lester,"_ he growls.

I spot a man, who clearly was attempting to sidle away undetected, stop short. He turns around abashedly. 

"Good morning, Maestro," he says as he ambles over with a sheepish yet charming grin. Mr. Padilla just glares at him over his glasses and waves the title away.

"Stop calling me that," he grumbles, then promptly affixes a mighty glower to the man's face.

"Secondly," he continues, "Good morning, you say, morning! Let us rejoice, for I was beginning to think that perhaps I might have to say _good evening_ to you, Philip!"

The man- Philip- winces. 

"Yes, see, but I did show up-"

"Half an hour late, I might add! And in the middle of the young man's piece, too! Whatever happened to concert etiquette?" He wildly gestures to me as I awkwardly sit at my bench.

That's when Phil Lester first notices me. 

He leans to one side and gives me a wave around Mr. Padilla. I hesitantly give one back.

"So you're the famous Daniel Howell- ow!" Phil rubs his arm where Mr. Padilla whacked him with his baton.

"Yes," Mr. Padilla affirms with a drawl. "The famous Daniel Howell rehearsing with the famous New York Philharmonic. And where were you? Couldn't be bothered to make time in your _busy schedule_ for even the famous Daniel Howell."

Phil shrugs- a wide, open gesture, arms spread out and palms facing up. 

"I was sleeping! Sleeping's important."

Mr. Padilla looks for a moment as though he might crack into an unwilling smile, but he instead clenches his teeth and leans forward.

"Mister Lester, do you know where we are?"

"Carnegie Hall, sir."

"Precisely. And which orchestra do you belong to?"

"The New York Philharmonic, sir."

"And who are we rehearsing with?"

"Daniel Howell, sir." Phil's gaze flits towards me briefly.

"An accomplished, talented and _punctual_ pianist who deserves respect. Honestly, Lester! I'm running out of reasons for why I shouldn't declare you a disgrace to this ensemble and kick you right out those doors." Mr. Padilla delicately places two fingers to his temple and turns away with aggravation.

"Away with you," he says with a worn-out sigh, and flaps his hand. Phil wastes no time dashing for the doors (I follow after a hesitation), but once out of sight of Mr. Padilla, he looks back at me with a dazzling smile.

I forget how to smile back. But he's already walking away, his grin thrown over his shoulder accompanied, with a flat, New York accent, by the words:

" _Appassionata_ needs a bit more _passione, topolino_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> google translate is your friend


	7. sleep

The next time I wake up, it's dark outside and my parents are talking softly on the bed next to mine. There's a cup of water by the nightstand, so I reach over for it. My mom rushes to get it for me.

"How are you feeling?" she asks gently. 

"Crappy," I reply, and take a long drink.

"That Philip boy told us you were sick," my dad says from behind my mom. "I didn't like the idea of him here, but he seemed alright-"

"He was such a nice, thoughtful boy," my mom agrees, taking my cup. 

"Reckon he stole anything?" I joke weakly. 

"Oh, I'm positive some of your music books are missing," my mom grins. "Seriously, though, what a nice person. And so polite, too. He plays the violin?"

For a brief moment, the sound of a violin cuts through my memory. It fades away as quickly as it came.

"Yeah," I say. "The very last chair, though."

"Well. Still, it is the New York Philharmonic," my dad shrugs.

I settle back down. If Phil is so talented, I wonder what the concertmaster sounds like. I vaguely remember what he looks like- straight brown hair, perpetual smirk, exuding confidence. Charles or Charlie or something.

I grab the concerto from the nightstand and try to study it after changing into more comfortable clothes (my hips are lined with rather painful impressions from the denim), but either I'm unfocused or the fever is playing with my head- I can't pay attention. I roll over and go back to sleep, concerto still in my arms like a comforting stuffed animal.

* * *

Surprisingly, my fever has gone down by the next morning. I plead with my parents to let me go to rehearsals, but they refuse. I consider sneaking out, but judging by the hawk-eyes my mother is watching over me with, that's an impossibility unless I spontaneously swing out of the window. And I don't particularly fancy the notion of arriving at the hall in barefoot and in pajamas. So I grab my laptop, connect to the hotel's shitty Wi-Fi, and check my email. International calls and texts, of course, are ridiculously expensive, and I miss PJ and Chris like crazy. It's only been four days, but in a different country across the ocean among strangers, it feels longer.

There's one from Chris.

**Chris Kendall**  
hey dan! how's ny??

I type out a reply.

**:Dan**  
cold. and i'm sick. yippee

Chris replies immediately. He's probably on his way to school right now.

**Chris Kendall**  
that sucks, feel better :( make any friends yet?

**:Dan**  
met a world famous opera singer. does that count? i guess i have a guy called phil to thank for that. he plays the violin.

**Chris Kendall**  
shit that's so cool

**Chris Kendall**  
who's this pHiL gUy

**:Dan**  
lmao he practically carried me home when i got a fever at rehearsals

**Chris Kendall**  
if i could whistle, i'd be whistling into your ear right now

**:Dan**  
shHH

**Chris Kendall**  
also i have NEWS

**Chris Kendall**  
pj asked me out??? 

**Chris Kendall**  
yesterday??

**Chris Kendall**  
thIS IS SO CRAZY WHY WOULD ANYONE ASK ME OUT SKDMKMKSKMD

I'm stunned. I'm not sure how to respond. Why do these things happen the second I leave?

**:Dan**  
WTF CONGRATS

**:Dan**  
wait you better have said yes u lovesick boy

**Chris Kendall**  
i d i d w h o a m i

**:Dan**  
pj's bOyfRieNd that's whO

**Chris Kendall**  
shHH

My laptop is suddenly shut. I look up at my mom, who shakes her head disapprovingly.

"That's enough screen time. Get some sleep."

I try, but sleep eludes me, the way the answers to my infinite questions do.


	8. hidden melodies

When I step out of the hall on the second day of rehearsals, New York City is blanketed in a thin, chilly dusting of snow.

Everyone else rushes to wherever it is that they need to get to, lugging their instruments along and barely glancing up. More annoyed than awed, more inconvenienced than in confoundment. They grumble, pulling their coats around them a bit tighter and lowering their hats over their eyes.

My heart sinks just a little bit when I think about going back to the hotel, dull and unexciting compared to all these decorated shops and the snowy pavement.

I clutch my music scores to my chest and blink as snow settles in my eyelashes. Snow isn't new to me. But somehow, in this strange new place, it becomes so. The streets are quickly filling up, windowsills white, footsteps suddenly apparent- almost permanent until a new layer of snow covers them up, forever concealing their journeys back home. Winter is here, and it wouldn't stop the bustling of the city. If anything, the city is coming even more alive.

"The city is beautiful when it snows," says a voice beside me. I startle, thinking everyone had gone. It's Phil Lester, and he's never been this close to me before. His skin is nearly as pale as the snow clinging to his starkly contrasting hair.

"Yeah," I squeak.

_Topolino: A baby mouse._

I bite my tongue in embarrassment as we walk along. 

Phil seems to be unperturbed by the awkward silence that has descended over us with the snow. Or maybe it's just awkward to me- Phil swings his violin case casually as he looks up. No hat over his eyes, no protective arms over his chest. Just a warm scarf and a warm smile melting away the cold.

I pull up the collar of my jacket and bury into it. Warm smiles, it seems, are not enough to thaw away a frosty nose. I should have brought a scarf.

"Where are you headed for?" Phil asks, switching his violin over to his right hand so it wouldn't bump into me.

"Er, back to the hotel," I say, unconsciously gripping my music closer to me. "Just around the corner, on West 57th."

"Oh, that's just around the corner, then," he says. "I was about to offer you a ride, but we're nearly there anyway."

"Oh. Thanks anyway."

"No problem."

I scramble for something to say after this, but Phil beats me to it with a smooth head tilt towards me.

"Would your parents object to you being in the city by yourself on a snowy day?" he asks.

"Er- what?"

"Well, not by yourself- I could be your tour guide for the day, with some other people from the orchestra. Seems a wasted opportunity to be staying inside in a hotel all day."

Suddenly, prospect of being back in a heated hotel room with only my parents and a laptop for company seems ridiculously tempting. 

"Alright," I find myself saying. "I'll call my parents."

"Cool! I can give you a ride back. And tell your parents not to worry- we don't condone underage drinking."

It turns out that, for all my parents' warnings about not getting into a strange man's car, those rules don't apply when that man plays in the New York Philharmonic and has other musician friends. I hang up with an internal sigh, almost wishing they had forbidden me from going.

Phil's phone rings on our way to his car.

"Yeah, hey Louise, did you guys decide on where- _Petrossian?_ Are you kidding me?"

There's a muffled dispute at the other end of the line.

"We are not going to Petrossian- the last time I checked, we're musicians, not millionaires."

I surreptitiously search "Petrossian" on my phone. It's an upscale cafe specializing in _caviar._ I hold my breath and pray that Phil will win this argument- my wallet suddenly feels very thin in my pocket.

"Louise, I will personally un-invite you from our post-rehearsal lunches if you insist on wasting money when we could be buying perfectly good coffee at Starbucks-"

Some more indistinct squabbles.

"Louise- oh, hey Connor. Yeah, can you knock some sense into Louise? We're going to Starbucks. Yeah. Okay, cool. Oh, and I'm bringing Dan."

A faint query.

"Yup. The one and only. Alright, see you there."

Phil slides his phone in his pocket and rolls his eyes at me.

"Turns out we're walking- there's a Starbucks right across from your hotel. Louise is crazy sometimes."

Phil stows away his violin in his car and we go back the way we came. I struggle a bit to keep up, despite being nearly as tall as him. The snow is falling faster and thicker, and I can't be happier when we finally push open the doors into the lovely coffee-warmth.

A gaggle of affable-looking people are clustered around a table. A guy with an impossibly wide grin and glasses spots us and waves us over.

"That's Tyler," Phil tells me. "Next to him is Connor, and- What?"

I had stopped short. 

"What?" Phil presses me.

"You didn't tell me Louise is _Louise Pentland,"_ I hiss. I reach up and frantically swipe at my hair, a nervous habit.

"And your reaction is precisely why." Phil takes me by the arm and drags me to the table. Everyone looks up and bursts into enthusiastic greetings.

I awkwardly stand by Phil as they reach over to shake my hand with introductions and gush over me. Somehow, it isn't too bad- I don't feel like a complete outsider. But then I spot a glimpse of the table covered in marked up music scores and pencils, and I nearly shrink away. These are people who live and breathe music.

So do I, but not the way they do.

"Daniel Howell! I know you!" Louise enthuses, and reaches out for a hug. I accept it, stunned.

"You're... Louise Pentland," I stutter, and she laughs.

"Why, yes, I suppose I am. Don't let it deter you, darling, I'm not all cracked up as they say I am."

Everyone choruses a gentle protest- except for Phil.

"She's right- she's on crack, and that's the only explanation I can find for why she wanted to go to Petrossian of all places," Phil says pointedly. Louise doesn't look too bothered by his rebuke, and pats the seat on her left as she smiles up at me. I sit down between her and Phil.

I'm sat next to one of the most famous opera singers in the world in a Starbucks. I think I've stopped functioning.

I try to gather some semblance of confidence and look around the table at the others. I think I recognize Connor from the viola section, and Tyler from the trumpet section. Cat has a small flute case by her on the table.

We order our coffee. Hyper aware of the possibility of spills and the abundance of paper scores on the table, everyone instinctively places their drinks on the floor the moment they arrive without a second thought. 

The snow picks up speed, and so does our conversations. I learn that Phil is very close to Louise, having grown up with her most of his life, and that everyone, with the exception of Phil, attended Julliard. Everyone is in their mid-to-late twenties. Phil is twenty-one.

"Phil is the youngest person in the Philharmonic right now," Louise informs me softly while everyone else chatters away. "He's unimaginably talented. Almost frighteningly so. Remember that."

This leaves me confused. Phil? Late-to-rehearsals, very-last-chair, clumsy, careless Phil Lester? Of course, being last chair is no small feat if it's in the New York Philharmonic, but the intensity in Louise's eyes said much, much more than what I had assumed about him.

"What do you think, Dan?" Tyler's voice breaks me away from my mindless sipping. I put the coffee down and examine the music scores, pointing out dynamics and phrase shaping and hidden melodies with everyone else.

I glance across the table at Phil. He is somewhat quiet, offering brief suggestions only occasionally, but his eyes furiously scan the music nonstop.

What kind of hidden melodies are hiding in Phil Lester?


	9. fever dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil carries Dan home.

I soon discover that Mr. Padilla is an eccentric conductor, to say in the least. His suggestions to the orchestra are interesting, but never unsound in theory. The result is the distinct sound of the New York Philharmonic that I've come to recognize on the various CD's I have at home.

When he tells everyone to stand up to try out one of his exercises in an effort to convey something about the projection of sound, we do it gladly- some stretch out their legs. But the second I get to my feet, I am suddenly swept away by nausea and dizziness. I clutch the piano and barely listen to what Mr. Padilla has to say.

I somehow make it through the rehearsal. No one really seems to notice my off-playing; that, or they keep it to themselves. I wish for the clock to move faster, but at the same time I dread having to get up from the bench. My depth perception has abandoned me- my vision has become circular and the keys look too big and too close to my face one second, small and far away the next.

Rehearsals come to an end in what simultaneously felt like a minute and a day. By the time I stagger offstage I'm shivering uncontrollably, covered in a cold fever-sweat. My legs feel like they're slowly sinking into the floor, which has surely turned into obstinate quicksand. I hate fevers. When I get them, I go the whole nine yards: high temperatures, a week of bed rest, mild hallucinations, nausea-inducing fever dreams. Walking becomes impossible.

I try to push away the frustration I feel. This fever could not have a worse timing.

I pull on my jacket as fast as I can in an effort to keep warm, but my body is wracked with a violent spasm of chills when I think about going outside into the freezing cold. I know I'm burning up, but all I want to do is lie down on a bed of hot coals.

"Dan, you alright? Oh god, you look awful, are you sick?" Phil peers into my face. I probably look gray and slimy, something akin to roadkill.

"Fever," I manage to reply through chattering teeth. 

"Everyone's left. I'll take you to your hotel," Phil says briskly. I look around in a daze. In my delirium, I hadn't realized everyone had left. "Are your parents there?" 

"No," I stutter, "They're out at a restaurant." I shudder at the thought of being at the hotel alone while sick. The only good part about being sick is being doted on.

"Let's get you to your room," Phil tells me as he picks up my things for me and slings his violin case with the straps onto his back. "And I'll call your parents then."

The walk back to the hotel is a long one. I doubt I'll remember much later, but I spend most of it leaning heavily on Phil. His right arm is firmly around my back and his left arm reaches across his body to support my elbow. It's still snowing since yesterday. Caught up in my state of fever-intoxication, I can't help but give in to a few hysterical thoughts.

_It's like I'm drunk and he's taking me home._

_I'm too ugly for anyone to take me home._

_He's 21. Drinking age._

_People staring at us probably think we're gay._

Somehow, I dig out my room key and I'm falling face first into the bed. I want to stay there for the rest of eternity, but Phil pulls me off the bed by the arm and pulls off my jacket first. He drapes it over a chair, and makes me sit down. 

"Do I need to take off your shoes, or do I need to do it for you as well?" He sounds amused.

The fever is running high, but not enough for me to be spared of the feeling of embarrassment. At least my cheeks are flushed enough to mask my mortification. I kick off my shoes and use every bit of strength I have left to roll into bed and under the covers as Phil fiddles with the thermostat. I've never realized how uncomfortable it is to get into bed with jeans on.

"I'll call your parents," I think he says, but his voice sounds far away and I'm already teetering over the edge of a drowsy, chilly fog until I finally fall asleep. I think I said thank you. I can't remember.

* * *

I wake up. For a moment, I don't know where I am or what time it is. I somehow feel more shitty, but slightly less chilly. The alarm clock reads 3:00 PM. It's only been half an hour. 

I hear a violin somewhere.

I could be hallucinating, but my hallucinations are usually quite weird, like the clop of hoof-steps or the tweeting of cuckoo clocks. Nothing this beautiful. I've never heard anything more beautiful in my life.

_"He's unimaginably talented. Almost frighteningly so. Remember that."_

I wonder if it's a fever dream. Actually, my entire life could be a fever dream- a whirlwind of performance after performance, each one finished before I can even process it. Strange sleep schedules. Familiar pits of dread and discomfort in my stomach. Staying awake in the middle of the night, whimpering in utter despair.

I wonder if my dream- no, not my dream, the _world's_ dream- to be a musician is a fever dream. Ignoring all logic, all passion, just a flight of fancy that will fade if only I just _wake up,_ if only the fever pitch of the audience's delighted frenzy would just _break._

If only they could see that this is all just a fever dream, a fever dream of some moonstruck kid.

I want to get up, but my head refuses to leave the pillow so I slide my gaze over beyond the bed. He's standing a little out of sight, behind the wall in the hallway by the door. I can see the tip of Phil's bow, though, and it weaves a ribbon into the air as he coaxes it across the strings. I don't recognize the piece.

"What is that?" I ask sleepily, but Phil doesn't reply. 

Either he didn't hear me, or I hadn't said anything at all.


End file.
